


Blocked Transmission

by TwixforBats



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:38:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwixforBats/pseuds/TwixforBats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You do like cowboys, don't you.”</p>
<p>The boy chews on his straw, eyes fixed on the screen, ignoring him completely.<br/>'Fair enough', Numbers shrugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blocked Transmission

It is a sad truth that one can't have everything from life, and a fact that one has to accept this to live a life relatively free of resentment. Knowing that, he had accepted many things like, for example, being stuck with his new nickname: he could dislike it as much as he wanted, but once your mother starts calling you 'Numbers' you just admit defeat and go with it.  
While he might tolerate his friends and family, though, that doesn't mean he's a saint: if he can spend an afternoon alone far away from all of them then he's definitely going to do so, and it doesn't matter if that means spending every single afternoon doing absolutely nothing on some boring road on the outskirts of the city with little that interests him.

 

–

 

It's an unbearably hot Monday with still air that makes it difficult to breathe. It feels wrong: it's like putting your head in the oven and taking a deep breath.  
He doesn't have enough money to buy an ice cream and loiter in the small bar down the road so he stays in the comic book shop instead. It's small and cramped and there's only one fan that doesn't work nearly as well as it should: still, it's something and he can stay in there as long as he wants.  
It's some kind of shade, at least.  
The comic shop has only two people inside: the clerk, who seems well on his way to suffering a heat stroke, and another boy who's reading something about cowboys.  
Numbers likes being alone: he wouldn't go out of his way to stay on his own, but if the situation arises he appreciates the silence. However, he doesn't particularly enjoy comic books and there's only so long one can stare at something they don't care about before it starts being boring.  
He would like to ask someone to explain how, exactly, it is possible to take Batman seriously and why Robin is so annoying, and he would like someone to tell him what exactly is the deal with Osborn's hair in Spider man: most of all, though, he wants to talk with someone so that he can forget that it's so unbearably hot his fingers stick to the pages.  
So he considers his options: the clerk, who is sweaty and pale with glassy, suffering eyes, and who will in all likelihood throw up and faint if Numbers talks to him, or the other boy, who has the distinct advantage of not looking ill. The choice seems easy.  
If it weren't for the way the boy looks completely lost in his comic, of course.

Numbers has been in other comic book shops: not many, but enough to realize that they tend to be silent havens for weird little nerds who barely even glance at each other when they're together. Every time he had entered a comic shop, he had felt like he was walking in in the middle of mass.  
It's ridiculous, he knows it, but the more he thinks about it the more he feels like it's probably disrespectful to ask someone to explain this whole nerd thing.  
He sighs and picks up a Fantastic 4 comic.

 

–

 

It's Tuesday and one could cook an egg on the pavement, if one were so inclined. Thankfully the little road is of the dusty kind rather than paved, so whenever some kind of breeze arises Numbers is blessed with sand in his eyes.  
He has enough money for an ice cream but not enough to buy something to drink after it, so he spends his afternoon at the bar with sticky, strawberry-flavored fingers and an ever-worsening thirst. The bartender fans herself with a folded newspaper, sharing a few words with the man sitting at the counter: the man lazily tries to keep up the conversation but he seems more focused on the glass of water in front of him. The only other person in the place is a guy his same age who, Numbers realizes, is the same boy from the comic book shop. He's sitting not too far away from him, absentmindedly chewing the straw of his ice tea, staring at the old TV on the other side of the room: there's no volume but he still looks enraptured.  
Numbers looks at the screen: it's an old Western, something with Indians and some famous American actor he should be ashamed to not remember the name of but he doesn't actually care about.

“You do like cowboys, don't you.”

The boy chews on his straw, eyes fixed on the screen, ignoring him completely.  
 _Fair enough_ , Numbers shrugs.

 

–

 

It's Sunday. The ground releases a hot wave that makes it look as if the road is trembling and shimmering in the distance.  
All the shops are closed and the only way to shield himself from the sun is sitting on the steps of a house under the shade of the dry shrubbery.  
It really doesn't work that well.  
For a couple of hours, Numbers is the only one there: other people are probably lucky enough to have a family they prefer to the worst heatwave of the century. Then, at three in the afternoon, someone appears.  
At first he was sure it was just a mirage, but the closer it comes the clearer it becomes: it's the weird comic book guy and he has a book in his hands today.  
He also looks well on his way to getting a second-degree burn, but that's nothing Numbers can really do anything about, especially considering that, if he himself hasn't got a burn yet, that's just because of some sort of minor miracle.  
The weird guy sits on the side of the pavement under the street lamp shade, which would be funny if Numbers weren't trying to hide under a dried out shrubbery: then he opens the book.

“Pollyanna? Seriously? No one actually reads Pollyanna. The last person who read Pollyanna was the author.”

The guy doesn't react at all- not even a little shrug.

“...I'm sure it's a lovely book though.”

No reaction.

“Maybe not good enough to be read again but I'm sure it's worth a read.”

Absolutely nothing.

“I'm just trying to talk, you know!”

Nothing.

Numbers feels like he kind of hates the guy.

 

–

 

It's Wednesday. The hot wind raises towers of dust and ethereal ships of sand sail on the empty road.  
The sun is setting on another insufferably hot summer day and it's time for him to go back home: it takes a while for the sun to set, though, so it seems only fair for him to take the long way.  
The long way also means going exactly the opposite way. What does it matter? He'll get home eventually.

Halfway through his long journey to nowhere – home, ultimately, but nowhere for the next half hour – he gains a companion: weird comic book guy, today with no comic nor book.

“Well hello. Had a nice day?”

Still as unresponsive as ever, though he's a couple of steps in front of him and he appears to be lost in his thoughts so it might be possible that he hasn't heard him.

“Hey, hi. Had a nice day?”

It's wildly improbable he hasn't heard that.

“I did. Or rather, it was a reasonable one.”

If one were to look at the weird guy in that moment, no one would think that someone is basically screaming at him.  
And yet there Numbers is, basically screaming at him.

“Absolutely hate the wind. And the dust! Every time I open my mouth, dust. Terrible.”

And yet there Numbers is, screaming at him.

“I guess that's why you're keeping yours shut.”

Finally, a reaction: the guy seems to awake from his reverie and turns his head to him, doing a double take when he finally – finally – acknowledges his existence.  
And then he quickens his pace.

“Seriously?!”

The guy tightens his fists, staring straight ahead.

“I'm trying to have a conversation here! I'm doing nothing other than being polite and you run away?! What did I do! Slow down and explain what I'm doing wrong!”

A small voice in his head says that probably screaming while chasing – not quite running because they aren't really running but definitely not walking either – after the guy is a bit of a faux pas in most social circles, but Numbers feels justified: after all, it's not him who started that ridiculous game, right?  
He was just trying to be polite.

“Slow down I said! Slow- you know what, go to hell! You- what the hell is wrong with you?! Come here and-”

“Hey! Fuck off before I get my shotgun, kid!”

Numbers would not call the sound he made when the old man had appeared from behind the fence a screech only because 'screech' is somehow too dignified a term: it was a girly squeal a cruel god had made louder for no reason other than to mock him, and the fact that the weird guy had been running inside the house didn't make his running away any less embarrassing.

 

–

 

It's a Friday. The pavement is breaking under the sun and the air has an acrid smell.  
Some guy Numbers is unlucky enough to call 'friend' is carrying him to a bar, saying something he can't focus on. It doesn't matter, it's probably something stupid.  
It's always something stupid with them.  
Numbers feels sick: the heat is making it impossible to breathe and there's that smell that drills his brain and makes him want to throw up. He mustn't look good either, because the moment he manages to get to the counter the bartender puts a glass of water in his hand. Or maybe his friend ordered it? He's not sure. The friend is still talking.  
The water helps, slightly, but when he turns around everything goes wobbly.

When the world sets, the weird guy is there, glaring at him.

“What are you looking at?”

Numbers grips on the counter with his free hand, downing the glass of water with the other. It has a terrible aftertaste, but it helps setting something in the back of his head.  
It helps.  
Then he opens his eyes and the weird guy is still there, glaring at him, and his stomach turns when he leaves the counter, his sight wavers, but something in his head snaps and he knows that what he's going to do is right.

“I am going to put your eye out.”

The next couple of seconds are a confused mess of screams and colors: Numbers can't honestly tell if he jumped on the guy or merely fainted on him, but when he comes back to the real world his friend is forcibly removing his hands from the boy's neck, so that's a win probably.

“-the fuck is wrong with you, you start fights with the retarded kid now?! Are you going to punch a guy in the wheelchair now, you fucking idiot-”

The weird kid steps back, glaring at him with a kind of intensity that could be harnessed to open a portal to hell itself: that doesn't quell Numbers' desire to claw his eyes out.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he says, or rather, slurs out: his hands goes on his friend's arm, clenching it in an attempt to steady himself up. “I'm going to put his eye out.”

“Yes, fucking good idea! Make the deaf and dumb kid blind too, that's a fucking excellent idea! Fuck's sake, do I have to come here and tell you to leave the retarded kid alon-”

And as the weird guy leaps on his friend to savagely try and beat the flesh away from his bones and the bartender screams and kicks them out, a billion piece invisible jigsaw puzzle Numbers didn't even know existed suddenly falls into place.

 

–

 

It's Thursday. The clouds seem to have trapped the heat over the city.  
Numbers has had enough time to think about it and he knows that he owes the guy an apology. He also knows that, since the guy is deaf, he can't tell him by voice that he's sorry: it's just good manners to apologize in an understandable manner.  
Obviously he had been sensible about it: his plan was to try and find out how to say 'I'm sorry' in sign language and, if that proved to be too hard, then he would just write it down. It seemed nice to make an effort to apologize in the guy's own language, but if it was too difficult then no biggie.

That was the plan.

After having looked in three different libraries for a book on sign language and having come up with absolutely nothing, however, finding a way to communicate in sign language has turned into a matter of principle.

“Are you trying to tell me,” he says to the fourth librarian he's been forced to talk to in one day, “that you have a book on the linguistic basis of American Sign Language but not one that _teaches_ sign language?”

The librarian stares at him, almost as unimpressed with him as he's angry with her. “Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath, his hands clenching painfully in his pockets. “ _Who needs a book on the linguistic basis of American Sign Language_?”

She raises an eyebrow, managing somehow to look even more unimpressed. “And who needs a book to learn sign language?”

It takes all his might not to scream 'me'. “ _Deaf people_? People who want to _talk_ to deaf people?”

She pops a gum. He hadn't even noticed she was chewing a gum.  
He hates her a little.

“They'd need a braille book.”

“...Who?”

“Deaf people.”

He hates her a lot. “Give me that book on linguistics.”

 

–

 

It's Saturday. The clouds are turning black, promising a big storm.  
He had hoped that the book would have some examples of sign language and that, maybe, in those examples there would have been 'I'm sorry'. That, of course, hadn't happened. However, one of the examples used to explain how grammar changed when asking questions was 'what's your name', which maybe didn't convey his regret but did convey a certain kind of cheerful optimism and the hope that they could become friends.

The hope wavered a bit under the guy's blistering glare, but one had to try.

So, _name_ – index and middle against index and middle – and _what_ – jazz hands. _What is your name_.

In theory. The guy looks somewhat puzzled, which hopefully has something to do with the situation in itself rather than him having accidentally called his mother an ox or something like that.

The guy bends his right hand and beats it twice against the open palm of his left hand.

“...Erm, what?”

The guy furrows his brow and repeats the gesture, slowly.  
Numbers has still no idea of what that's supposed to mean, but he decides to appreciate the way the glare has shifted to confusion.

“...What?”

The guy begins the gesture but stops halfway through, his face lighting up suddenly: he gestures him to wait, getting the comic book in his pocket and quickly scanning through the pages.  
He then holds up the comic, pointing to one of the speech bubbles: 'if Baron Zemo gets away, history will repeat itself'!  
Numbers briefly wonder what the fuck is going on in those comics. “So... is that your name?”

The boy taps his finger over the word 'repeat'.

“Oh? Oh! The thing you did means 'repeat'!”

The guy blinks, confused.

“The. Thing. You. Did. Means. 'Repeat'?”

This time he nods, though he still seems somewhat unsure: if Numbers has understood clearly – and that, quite frankly, is turning into a bigger and bigger 'if' as the time goes on – the guy just asked him to repeat the gestures for 'what's your name'.

Which he apparently does quite badly, because the guy lets out a half giggle.

“What?”

He does this fluid movement, the stretched index and medium fingers of his right hand tapping on those of his left and then the- oh, Numbers thinks, so that's how it's supposed to be.

“Yeah, well, sorry, I had to learn from a book you know.”

The guy looks confused. _Repeat_.

“Er, I. Learned. From. A. Book?”

Numbers mimes a book just to be sure, but he instantly regrets it when he sees how taken back the guy looks: he doesn't know what he accidentally said, but he's pretty sure he's seen the boy's cheeks take a slightly pinkish hue before he returns to glare at him.

He touches his forehead with his right hand only to then draw it away. It takes Numbers a while to understand that that too is supposed to mean something.

“Erm, I have something on my forehead?”

The guy repeats the gesture, more angrily.

“Eyebrow? Your eyebrow itches?”

The third time he does it it looks more like he's swatting something away rather than doing a sign.

“It... spider? Headache?”

He takes the comic out of his pocket and goes through it, turning the pages with more and more violence, starting again when he gets to the end until he's basically tearing away the pages.

“Uh, I-”

The guy lets out a frustrated little cry, throwing the comic to the ground: he's gone when Numbers recovers from the shock, leaving him alone to wonder what the hell just happened.

 

–

 

It's Tuesday. It's a nice sunny day with a pleasant breeze.  
Someone taps his shoulder: it's the weird guy. He doesn't look at him in the eyes, but he does something.  
He taps his own chest with his open right hand: it doesn't take a genius to realize that means ' _my_ '.  
Then there's a sign that Numbers already knows: ' _name_ '.  
And then... something. It's a string of things that don't really look like anything. Letters, presumably? It's probably the spelling of a name.

“I... I don't...”

The guy looks distraught.

Numbers sighs, then smiles: _my name is_ , he signs, then spells out his name by voice, trying to mouth every syllable as best as he can.

The guy raises his hand, starting to spell Numbers' name but stopping on the second sign as realization dawns on both of them.

Numbers sighs again. “C'mon man, let's get ice cream.”


End file.
